Page 90 of Burn the Script

“It’s called an indoor aerial park. We’re here to have fun.”

Her outfit makes more sense now, as does her hair parted in the middle and woven into two long braids. I peek at my checkered blazer, chinos, and black loafers. We have different definitions of comfort.

Carmen pays an exorbitant entry fee and drags me to a sea of trampolines. After an intense argument about wearing grippy socks, and some light shoving on her part, I’m bouncing up and down close to the far wall. My feet never leave the mat. On the next trampoline over, she jumps high and twirls, singing along to pop hits and having the time of her life.

“When can we leave?” I ask, yelling over the music. “It’s too loud, and I’m making a fool of myself in front of all these kids.”

“I’ll let you know when it’s time.”

She bounces to my trampoline and launches me in the air. My squeal is embarrassing, but I land on my feet and not my ass.

“Let’s make an honesty circle,” she says.

“There’s only two of us.”

Her fingers wiggle in my direction. “Join hands.”

I roll my eyes but indulge her. She squeezes my fingers in a death grip and forces me to bounce in a circle.

All the fun leaves Carmen’s face when she stares directly into my eyeballs. “Your friends would never say what I’m about to tell you. They know you’re sensitive and don’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“But you’ll gladly do the dirty work, so get it over with.”

“You self-sabotage.”

I scoff. “Ridiculous.”

“You’re doing it now. Instead of asking for help to fix things with Graham, you’re sulking and self-diagnosing conditions you don’t have, like narcissism.”

“I have many qualifying traits. Ask the internet.”

Carmen looks to the ceiling for help, which causes her to stumble. Our bounces fall out of sync, and she screams as she nearly takes us both down. By the time we find our footing and a matching rhythm again, her red cheeks look as hot as mine feel. See? I’m not the only one who’s afraid of embarrassing myself in front of children.

She flicks a long braid over her shoulder and takes a steadying breath before continuing her lecture. “Are you self-absorbed? Yes. But you’re also empathetic. Real narcissists, like the jerk you dated in college, aren’t.”

Jesus, take the ghost of my ex and leave me be.

I’m tempted to fake motion sickness to escape this conversation, but curiosity gets the better of me. “Why are you bringing him up?”

“Because he’s the reason you can’t let go and have fun for even five seconds a trampoline.” We stop bouncing, and she drops my hands. “Now we can leave.”

Our trek through the parking lot is silent. Her sports car sticks out like a sore thumb among the family sedans and minivans. Once we’re inside it, she locks the doors but leaves the ignition off.

“I’ve been doing some reading about narcissism.”

“Here we go,” I mutter, pinching my nose. We haven’t put our seatbelts on, and she’s already trying to disprove my diagnosis.

“What your ex did to you was called gaslighting. He made you doubt yourself, to the point you tried to become someone different. Someone worthy. And when you were at your lowest, he ended the relationship, making it seem like there was nothing you could’ve done to be worthy of him.”

Often, I felt like I was dating two different people. A warm, attentive man in public and a cold, berating snake behind closed doors.

Flicking a hand, I say, “I got over him.”

“Emotionally, maybe, but not mentally.” She turns in her seat, lifting a knee onto the console. “Why did you stop seeing that Derek guy after a month?”

I take a second to place the name. Derek was the last guy I dated before meeting Graham. A forgotten blip in my history.

“He broke it off with me because I was taking too long to have sex with him.”